The Death of The Boy Who Lived
by Sarah Greenleaf
Summary: We all know the feeling of peer pressure, life just gets to hot to handle for Harry. PG-13 for deathsuicide.


Harry and Ron wandered quietly through the hall, not saying a word to eachother. The events that had just come to pass had probably just changed everything their friendship once was. They reached the potrait of the Fat Lady and Harry muttered, "Figgy pudding." "Oh!" Yelled Ron as the portrait hole swung open. "NOW you can talk!" He stomped off into the common room. "Ron! You know I would've, I just, I just needed more proof!" Harry called after him. Ron turned and gave him a blazing stare. "We're best mates, Harry, I'd of hoped my word was enough." Ron walked up into the dormitory, just as Hermione came running in through the portrait hole. "Harry! So glad I've caught you!" She said running towards him, a stack full of parchment under her arm. "Snape has just announced the news. Here, hold these." She handed him half of the parchment. "If'll you just look through those and make sure every signed it'll be a great help, ooh, I'm so excited!" "Hermione, what the bloody hell is all of this?" Harry asked. "It's my petition. To stop the slavery of house elves. My second big step in S.P.E.W. Where's Ron?" She asked reviewing a paper who's signature was barely legible. "He's upstairs." Harry said pretending to be interested in the petition. "Well, go get him then." She said crumpling up a piece and tossing it into a paper waste basket. "Er. I don't think so. We kinda had a little fight. You see, Trelawney accused him of copying other people dreams, and I didn't stick up for him, so he has to redo the whole assignment. Maybe you should go get him." "Well, suppose he-he's changing or something?" A disgusted look crossed her face. "Come on Harry, be a man about it." She giggled. "BLIMEY HERMIONE!!! Give me a break!!!" He screamed standing up, turning every head in the room. "Harry, calm down! I'm sorry, we can just do it, it's fine." She looked downward, afraid of his stair. "NO!! YOU, Hermione, YOU can do this, I don't even think that the elves should be free! You know EVERY hat and scarf you've EVER made has been taken by Dobby! None of the others can go no matter what you do! GET OVER IT!!!!" He tossed his stack of papers into the fire, and then stood there watching them burn. Tears formed in her eyes as her hard work burned in the fire. "Harry." She muttered. "You'll pay for that." Tears streamed down her face, and she hid them in her hands, quiet sobs echoing in the room. Two girls from the other side of the room ran over and helped her towards the stairs, but she held back. "HERE!" She tossed the rest of the papers at him, "burn the rest! Go on then!" The tears reflected in the firelight. He looked at the enormous stack of parchment in his hand, gave a crumple and tossed them to the floor, running out of the tower.  
The next morning, as Hermione and Ron made their way back to the tower, and not seeing Harry all day they took a turn to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, to stop in and say hello. "Hello Myrtle." Said Hermione, turning on the tap and rinsing her hands. Myrtle wept. "Oh Hermione!" She shrieked. "He didn't become a ghost!" She cried from the window ledge. "Who Myrtle?" Hermione asked tossing Ron a paper towel, for he had squirted himself in the eye. "Come and see." She said, soaring across the room to the same stall in which she had died. Hermione and Ron walked cautiously over to the stall. Hermione pushed the door open slightly, and there he was. Harry James Potter, hanging by a rope. His glasses were on the floor, broken. His green eyes piercing through their skin, the image now forever ingraved in their hearts. And his limp hands attached to a note.  
  
"Dearest Ron and Hermione;  
I never meant to not stick up for you Ron, I know you didn't copy anyone. Please forgive me for that. And Hermione, I'm sorry I ruined your work like that, I wish S.P.E.W the best of luck, and I hope you will be happier now, with me gone. Oh yeah, I love you." 


End file.
